


Scarlet and Midnight

by Lirazel



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-29
Updated: 2008-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-05 00:32:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirazel/pseuds/Lirazel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The world is remade in shades of scarlet and midnight, and all that's left is each other.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarlet and Midnight

Familiarity is supposed to breed contempt, only it isn’t working out quite that way.  True, the first time she saw him the world went red (_except it had already done that, long ago, and now it’s gone from scarlet to crimson and back again_), and she launched herself at that smirking face (_how _dare _he be the only familiar face in all the world?_), at that quirked scarred eyebrow (_how could he still _look _like that?_), and beat him till his face was unrecognizable (_he’d given her_ hope_, damn it, came to her with that stupid Happy Meals speech and the idea for a truce, and she’d thought maybe they could manage it.  Only they’d failed, and he took off and now he’s_ back_, and how dare he come back?_).  Through the blood that dribbled out of his mouth (_his own: the monster transformed into the victim for once, by her own hands, and the irony wasn’t lost on her_), he _laughed_.  She hit him harder.

He trailed along behind her after that, like a puppy (_like a young pit bull or a wolf pup, maybe: adorable while at play, lulling you with false innocence and wide eyes—and then: the hunt_), that is until they ran into the next (_in endless succession_) group of demons (_in her mind, she calls them “a murder” like the plural of crows that feast on corpses and paint the sky midnight_)and then he was in the middle of the battle (_the dance_) while she was still trying to force her protesting muscles, taut and creaking from constant use, into action (_technically, she’s still young, only her body hasn’t gotten the memo, and her mind—heart—soul feel older than the universe_).  She paused a moment, watching his brutal beauty, the grin he shot over his shoulder—sliding out of game face for a moment—as he twisted and leaped and bowed through the complicated steps, his duster billowing around him like a ball gown, the danse macabre (_and it was while he was grinning that she caught a glimpse of sorrow as deep as she feels old, shining through the blue_).  She growled in frustration (_with his impetuousness, with herself_), launched herself into the fray after him (_her body might be old, but it still knows the steps, and for once she let him lead_), and when they were done, two score demons lay slain at their feet.

He slid out of game face, licked a blood-drenched finger, then lit a cigarette (_she was too frustrated—exhausted—to wonder where he got it_).

She didn’t tell him to leave after that (_not that it would have done any good; the whole world may have been remade in shades of scarlet and __midnight__, but Spike will always be stubborn_).  But she did, from time to time (_when she couldn’t stand to look at his face, unchanged and beautiful and forever young when everything she’d ever loved had been raped and ripped to shreds and now blows in the wind like ash, like memories_) attack his face with her fists.

He always laughed.

\--

At first (_he tells himself_), he stayed with her because he hates to be alone (_he’s liveddied long enough to know that everyone’s greatest fear is being alone, and there’s no shame in admitting it_), and in a world full of hell’s own demons (_untainted by anything like humanity, unlike vampires_) he needed someone to fight with if he was going to last (_these demons, real ones, pure ones, hate vampires, label them half-breeds, have sworn to wipe them out_) and who could be better than the Slayer?  He’d never fought by her side before (_not_ _until Angelus and Dru and Acathla and that was less him fighting and more just knocking Dru out and running, and besides, it didn’t exactly end well_), but he knew when they were fighting each other (_their mutual preference for engaging each other instead of anyone else_), so fluid and graceful and brutal and _perfect _(_the greatest dance he could imagine_), that they would be unstoppable if they ever fought side-by-side.

And they are.  But it’s more than that, the reason he stays with her (_and it has nothing to do with the way moonlight glints off of her hair, the only beauty left in the world_).  Maybe it’s because when he looks in her eyes, he sees his own pain reflecting back (_he would never have thought that anyone could mourn as deeply as he’s mourning Dru, but this little girl with her fierce tongue and her deadly hands somehow understands_).  Maybe it’s because when they’re fighting (_side-by-side or face-to-face, blows or words weapons they wield with equal skill_), he can forget, just for a little while.

Or maybe it’s because he (_the William inside_) just can’t stand to see a woman cry (_and she may try to hide her sobs from him, but he always knows_).

The reason doesn’t matter (_not in this world without reason_), and after a while he gives up on trying to explain it away.

\--

She (_never really_) expected him to give up after a while, get bored, wander away to find a new game to play (_a new dance to learn_).  And true, there are times when he wanders off for a while, is gone for hours or days (_the first time, she thought he was really, truly gone, and she hated herself for the tear that slid down her cheek_), but he always appears again, finding his way back to her side no matter how many miles she’s covered while he’s been gone (_if she keeps walking, she doesn’t have the time to recognize any of the places she might pass through, because that recognition would be hell_).  She tries not to think about what would happen if he doesn’t come back (_because somewhere along the line, she stopped being able to pretend that she doesn’t miss him, that all she is isn’t waiting for him to come back_); it would be back to before (_loneliness deep as sorrow_), and she thinks that this last loss might be the one to finally shatter her (_completely_).

The first time he laid down beside her (_in the shelter of a cave they found as dawn approached—he’s still a creature of the night, and she can’t stand to look at the sun anymore_), she punched him, yelling _how dare you_s and telling him never to touch her.  He laughed, of course (_and she definitely didn’t think that maybe his laughter was the only joy left in the world_), and told her she’d be warmer with him reflecting her body heat back onto her.  She ignored him (_she hates it when he’s right_) and stomped over to the other side of the cave.

He kept trying though, every single day, and her protests became less and less vehement (_she_ _told herself it was because of exhaustion, but she knows the truth_) until one day she stayed (_and she would never admit that that day, in his arms, she slept through the day for the first time since the end_).

She doesn’t have nightmares (_lifedeath is a nightmare all on its own_), but she doesn’t dream of happier times either (_she remembers that the word “happy” existed once, but she doesn’t remember what it really meant_): sleep is oblivion, one she is thankful for.  But before, she would wake up suddenly, shivering so violently that she thought she might come out of her skin (_this skin that is too small to contain her sorrow_).  She rarely does that anymore, not when he holds her, and on the rare occasions that she does, he’s there to tighten his embrace, whisper soothing words into her ears, sing to her softly till she drifts off to sleep.

They never talk about it later.

\--

At first, he thought they wouldn’t survive long (_and the idea didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should have_), not in this world: she is the only human left (_all those lovely Happy Meals, gone forever_) and how are either of them supposed to find enough foodblood to stay alivedead?

But the world, other than the absence of humans and the presence of demons, is surprisingly how it’s always been (_he imagines the days when the world was young, no humans to fill it up, all empty space and nature forever and knows that it’s reverting back to that_), and so (_when they’re passing through the wildernesses between ruins that used to be towns, or when there’s nothing in half-collapsed abandoned buildings worth scavenging_) he hunts for her.  Animals provide meat for her, blood for him (_and his complaining about the taste is more to give her a chance to roll her eyes than because he really cares_), and there’s wild fruit, nuts and canned or freeze-dried foods to supplement her diet. 

They wander through abandoned cities, half-war zone, half-ghost town, huge skyscrapers covered in grime, surrounded by weeds, and wildlife creeping back in to take over (_her eyes so haunted, like she believes that she’s responsible for all the empty places_).  They wander through wilderness, trees and mountains, beaches and deserts, and they always manage to find enough to stay alive.

One day as they’re settling in for sleep in a derelict shed in what used to be Tennessee (_he’d laughed when he saw the half-collapsed barn, the huge words SEE ROCK CITY still perfectly visible on the roof, and told her he’d take her there, let her peer over the edge of Lover’s Leap, navigate her way through Needle’s Eye, let her see what used to be seven states_), talking softly about today (_they never talk about yesterday, never talk about tomorrow_), she takes his head in her hands and positions his mouth at her throat.

Everything she does surprises (_delights_) him, but she’s never shocked him into speechlessness before.  He can feel her blood, pulsing under her skin, can smell it (_though he had to learn long ago not to let himself think about it, not when she got injured nearly every day_), and he’s both tempted and repulsed (_how could she think she owes him this?_), because doesn’t she know he would never hurt her?

But she runs a gentle finger along the line of his cheekbone, and he gives in, almost weeping in gratitude (_how could she give him this, a way to survive, when she’s already given him the reason to?_) as he slides his fangs into her.

She sighs, her fingers running through his hair as he sips down the rich perfection of her blood (_her essence_), and she begins to whisper.  Silly things, at first: that she likes his hair this way, without the gel (_they found bleach one night in an empty house they took over, and she’d laughed for the first time and called him a wimp when he shivered with pain as she bleached his hair_); that they should figure out a way to cross the ocean so that he can take her to the very top of the Eiffel Tower; that his duster’s continued survival gives her hope that they’ll both survive.

But then her voice catches, and she whispers about the things neither of them ever talk about: about how she misses her mother, her Watcher, her friends, how it was her fault that this happened when she stole Angel’s soul away (_he pulls back, about to protest, but she gently but firmly pushes his mouth back_), how he’s the only thing that’s keeping her going—she knows she has to keep fighting, to atone for her failures, and because there isn’t going to be a Slayer called after her, and then evil will truly have won—but if he ever leaves her, she won’t be able to carry on (_her words are so sad, so beautiful, that his tears fall, running along the lines of her neck to gather in the hollow of her collarbone, cradling his tears like she’s cradling his body_).

When he is sated, he cradles her to him (_so warm and alive and beautiful_), and it’s his turn to whisper, of how he still aches for Dru, how all the joy has gone out of existing except for her and fighting and sleeping beside her, how she is the only thing beautiful and true left and that he will never, ever leave her.

That’s the first night that he admits to himself that he loves her.

\--

She never expected him to be gentle.  This was inevitable; she can admit now that there was always something crackling between them, from the very beginning (_the first time she saw him in that alley suddenly they were the only two people in the world, and it’s been like that ever since_), something that would catch up with them sooner or later.  And maybe she knew from the first time he exploded his way back into her nightmare world that there would be only one way this could end.

But she never expected him to be gentle.  The fire between them burned so hot, so furious, that when she thought about it (_and she thought about it more than she would ever admit_), she expected it to be like one of their fights: explosive, incendiary, consuming.

She never expected him to wake her with a kiss (_she’d forgotten what kisses felt like, but she thinks that even if she hadn’t, nothing else could compare_).  Never expected him to smile lazily (_sexily_) down at her before covering her face in kisses.  Never expected him to so carefully peel away her clothes, one layer at a time (_never knew it could make her pant for breath when he takes his time this way_), dropping kisses on newly-revealed flesh.  Never expected his coolness to feel so good next to her heat (_she’d been freezing that night with Angel and never knew this delicious contrast_).  Never expected his body to be so beautiful (_he kisses her even harder when she blushes to see him—he’s the first naked man she’s ever really _looked_ at_).

Never expected him to whisper how beautiful she was, to cradle her close as he eased into her.  Never expected his body to feel just right over her, in her.  Never expected to cry at his tenderness, at the awe in his eyes as he makes love to her (_never expected it to be making love_).  Never expected anything to feel that perfect ever again (_never expected to explode like this, seeing scarlet and then __midnight__ before drifting back to herself and him_).

Never expected him to whisper _I love you_ as he held her in the afterglow.  Never expected to want to say the words back to him, even if she can’t quite bring herself to do it (_never expected not to worry about it, because she knows that sooner or later, she will say them_).

But then, he’s always had a way of defying (_exceeding_) her expectations.

\--

Winter creeps closer, and they head south, chasing after warmer weather (_not that it matters to him, but she is still so, so human_).  They travel at night, of course (_and he is glad that there is never light enough for him to see that she’s almost as pale as he is now, forcibly converted into a creature of the night by this hell of a lifestyle_), sleep the days away in empty homes or warehouses or caves or wherever they can find shelter (_ignoring rusty brown smears of dried blood or skeletons or other remnants of the demons’ triumph and humanity’s defeat_), steal hours of comfort in each other’s arms (_resurrecting beauty and peace and love_), eat what they can find, move on again.

They find the house on a beach at the southern tip of Florida, set away from the others (_weather-silvered wood and faded blue shutters, poinsettia bushes growing outside, and he makes bad jokes about the dangers of the driftwood fence_), small and cozy, and without any bloodstains or destruction at all (_its almost pristine condition convinces him that no one was probably living here when all hell broke lose and the demons saw no reason to destroy it_).

They hadn’t seen any demons for three days, and so they set up house, and he never imagined (_he’d long for_) anything so domestic.  She collects seashells and lines them up on windowsills, hangs up homemade wind chimes in the windows, washes their clothes and the sheets from the bed they’ve appropriated in creek nearby.  He catches fish with his bare hands (_she giggles and protests when he tries to get her to skin them_), steers the small boat around to other houses to find more supplies (_kerosene and fuel and pre-packaged foods from gas stations and bait shops and other beach houses all across the coast_), makes forays farther inland to be sure demons haven’t blundered their way into this little enchanted world.  A cat, sleek and skinny and scarred, arrives one day and never leaves, and though he curses at it constantly, it becomes as much a part of home as Buffy’s scent.

She can go out in the day now, and her skin takes on that familiar healthy glow, and he sits in the deep shade of their front porch and watches her hang up laundry or bask in the sun (_his girl, finding her sunshine again_).  At night, they frolic in the moonlit waves and make love on blankets spread out on the dunes (_sand still manages to get everywhere_) and hold each other as they watch the dance of the flames of a driftwood fire.  One night, when he whispers that he loves her (_for the thousandth time, because he just can’t seem to keep the words from tumbling out every few hours_), she whispers it back.

The world becomes opalescent like the inside of a seashell, blues and sunset pinks blessing everything, and there’s beauty again (_though he now knows that beauty is just an extension of her_).

It’s too perfect to last, and they both know it.  Sooner or later, the demons will find them, destroy this little Eden they’ve created (_they rarely wear clothes now—what’s the point?—though it took him a good long while to convince her that that was a good idea, and she still blushes whenever she finds him looking at her_), and they’ll have to move on.  But for a little while, it’s nice just to rest.

\--

She’s never going to be happy.  Not really, not with the knowledge of all she’s lost (_not when she knows, despite what he tells her, that it’s really all her fault_).  Not with the loneliness that comes from being the protector of humanity when there is no humanity left to protect eating away at her constantly (_and all of Spike’s sweet words and sweeter kisses can’t absolve her of that_).   But she manages, finding a little bit of joy, a small serenity, scrapings of hope, enough to get by on (_it’s enough_).

One night the demons arrive, their unearthly howls tearing through the night and the peace the Slayer and her vampire had managed to create, and descend with fury and violence.  The two of them fight, fight harder than they’ve ever fought since Acathla (_because now, once again, she has something to lose, this little world they’ve created, even if she knows it was only a gossamer dream all along_), and legions fall before their righteous fury (_she would never have described Spike as righteous, not ever, but now there is no other word to describe him, not when he’s fighting for her, for their home_), but it isn’t enough.

She doesn’t cry as she watches scarlet flames devour their home (_she left tears behind long ago_), not even when she lets Spike drag her away into the midnight darkness.  There will be other homes, she knows, places they’ll fix up and dwell in for a few years if they’re lucky, mere days if they’re not (_though she knows she will never feel as deep an affection as she did for this place_), and each time they are stolen away again (_devoured by scarlet and midnight_), she will feel like her heart’s been ripped out all over again.

But it won’t be.  Because somewhere along the line, she gave it to Spike, and if she knows one thing for certain (_the only thing she knows for certain in this chaotic world_), it is that he will do anything to keep it safe (_the lines between love and trust blur till they’re the same thing or maybe they always were_).

The world is blood and darkness (_scarlet and __midnight_), but their love is (_pure white_) light.

  


End file.
